


Metamorphosis

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Existentialism, Hate Sex, M/M, Nightmares, Scent Marking, Sexual Tension, Strained Relationship, Wolf Pack, one sided Matt/Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a thing born of hate and desperation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RonnieMinor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieMinor/gifts).



**I.**

Here’s the cold, hard truth about enlightenment: it wears off. There’s maybe a week or so - two weeks, tops - after his resurrection from death during which Jackson really finds himself believing that, hey, things might actually change from this point on. And then it all goes to shit. 

Fast forward exactly three weeks from the night he returned to life, shuddering and gasping and naked on the ice cold floor, and he can barely even remember what the hell it _was_ that he felt in that moment. With no small measure of dismay, he regards the slow slide of his internal barriers rearranging themselves, senses his guards and insecurities tightening a noose around his soul. It won’t be long before they’ve got him in a stranglehold once more.

He makes up a story: some bullshit about Mrs. McCall being able to get his heart running again after removing his body from the lacrosse field. Something about dumb luck and good hospital care, and who knows what the fuck else. And, amazingly, people believe it. Danny hugs him and cries a little bit, punches him in the shoulder and tells him to ‘never do that to me again, asshole.’ Rumors float around school for a while, whispers in the hallways about him being ‘clinically dead’ for varying amounts of time. (Some of the weirder kids seem to think he’s made a pact with the devil or some such nonsense.) 

It’s a good feeling at first, actually. He’s always hungered for attention, craved it to the point of starvation. So he shrugs off the unsavory rumors, the suspicious stares. They’re insignificant. Things really do seem to be okay for that short span of time; his love life back on track, no longer under the control of a bloodthirsty master. And he’s a proper werewolf now. Just like he wanted.

Except, things start sliding into focus: Lydia has been changed by her experiences, made into something new. It’s subtle - discreet enough that he doesn’t notice straight away - but it’s real. It cuts deep. Her ‘ice queen’ charade isn’t quite as convincing. She’s just as confident as ever, but with less venom in her bite. Her wit is razor sharp, but it lacks the casual coldness of her former life. She takes notice of people outside her social circle, walks with a less pompous air.

She’s different. And Jackson isn’t.

He can remember giving consent, nodding once and allowing himself to die. Allowing Derek and Peter to kill him. But he can’t for the life of him remember _why_. To prevent himself from being used as a weapon? To take back some small measure of control in offering himself up as a sacrifice? To just end all the pain? Everything that seemed so clear at the time is murky once more. And all the love and peace and gratitude for existence he’d felt later that night, lying in bed with Lydia in his arms...

...where has it gone?

  

**II.**

Derek comes to see him three days after the confrontation with Gerard. Just slips in through his bedroom window about half past midnight. Jackson startles badly, jerks back and bangs his head against the headboard.

“Fuck...” he growls.

“Let’s try this again,” Derek says. He crouches on the edged of the bed, knees jutting out to the side, looming in the shadows like some nightmarish bird of prey. His eyes gleam in the dark. “You’re with me now. You’re one of us. For real this time.” He cocks his head to the side. Jackson can see the wet gleaming of his canines bared dangerously behind slightly parted lips. “Any objections? Do you still have ‘your own agenda,’ Jackson?”

Any other day, and Jackson would snap back without missing a beat. But he’s still living in the haze, hasn’t quite gathered his cocky composure. So he nods tightly. “I’m with you.” He swallows. “I don’t think I want to try this on my own.”

Derek leans back, looks satisfied. “Good.”

He sounds more relieved than smug, but Jackson still can’t help himself. “Although, I suppose I could defect and join McCall’s pack instead,” he says casually, lifts an eyebrow in challenge.

Derek doesn’t even blink, mouth twisting into a full blown smirk. “Right. Because you’d take orders from him.”

Jackson dips his head in grudging assent. “Point taken.”

Through the crack in the half-opened window, he can hear the whistling noise of the breeze shaking the leaves on the tangled branches of the backyard tree. Twin orbs of a nightbird’s eyes stare out at him from the darkness of a ovular hole in the trunk. He can smell blood and flesh on the bird’s talons, maybe even the scent of dead rat on its breath. Every sensation feels amplified, jacked up.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Derek’s fingers snapping in his face. “Pay attention.”

Jackson shoves his fists in his lap, rubs his palms together for warmth. “Yeah, okay.”

Derek’s forehead creases, brow furrowed. Scowling seems to be his default state of being. “There’s an Alpha pack in town,” he says calmly, monotone. “My uncle thinks Boyd and Erica may be with them. As hostages, or...otherwise.”

“An Alpha pack?” Jackson queries. “What-”

“You don’t need to know right now,” Derek interrupts. “I’m only telling you this as a courtesy. I’m keeping you apprised of the situation. You’re sitting out on this one.”

Jackson straightens up, fingers twisting angrily in his pillow sheets. “I thought you said I was with you now,” he mutters. “I let you fucking _kill_ me, douchebag. You still don’t trust me?”

Derek glares. “No. And even if I did, it wouldn’t. That’s not what this is about.” He shifts closer, scooting further up the length of the bed. Jackson shrinks away instinctively, bops his head against the wall. Derek pauses. A small smile quirks at the edges of his mouth. “You’re still afraid of me.” 

“No,” Jackson lies, knowing the pointless of denial and not caring. Derek reaches out and wraps his hand around the boy’s throat: not tightly, not threatening. Almost playful.

“It’s okay. I can actually use a pack member who knows how to roll over without a fuss.”

And he’s teasing - it’s a _joke_ , in so far as a guy like Derek Hale actually tells jokes - but the remark makes something unpleasant turn over inside Jackson’s stomach. A buried memory surfaces in the back of his head, tries to swim to the forefront of his conscious mind. Jackson promptly drowns it. He knocks Derek’s hand away. “So you want me to sit out,” he says stiffly. 

It’s a rhetorical question, but Derek answers anyway. “For this one, yes.” He nods. “We don’t have time to train you properly, and it wouldn’t be wise to bring a newly turned human into a volatile situation like this.” He backs away, leaps up to the windowsill with an eerie sort of grace. He looks over his shoulder, eyes still smoldering like embers in his sockets. “Just sit tight. Don’t be a hothead. I’ll come around for the next full moon, but if you need something before then...” He shrugs. “Scott will help you. Even though you’re not part of his pack.” Something akin to disdain - or maybe it’s jealousy - flashes across his face. And then it’s gone. “It’s a character flaw, if you ask me.”

He jumps down from the window, disappears from sight.

 

**III.**

So Derek is still _Derek_ , but he acts more like the Derek from before. Before the drama with Peter. Before becoming Alpha. He’s just as damaged as he ever was, still an asshole, still frightening sometimes. But the arrogance seems diminished somehow. There’s a willingness to listen, to think before acting. The results are manifesting themselves in small ways, but it’s undeniable that he’s learned from his experience. Just like Lydia.

Just like everyone except Jackson.

He doesn’t love Lydia, he knows that now. Or rather, he doesn’t love her in the way that he claimed to in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t love her in way that makes him possessive, drives him to stay faithful and make the relationship _work_. His eyes stray. He finds himself looking at other girls at school, fantasizing about the shape of their lips and the curve of the breasts; everything that makes them _not_ Lydia. He thinks about sex more than he can ever remember, and while part of it is simply a self-destructive gesture, at the core, he’s afraid that this is honestly who he _is_. Once an asshole, always an asshole. Earth-shattering revelations are for people with the capacity to grow.

In his head, he’s always been able to justify his behavior as actions spawned from a place of insecurity. [I’m adopted, I need to be the best, I need to be loved, I don’t have a real identity.] But the mask has been removed now, all his darkness laid bare. And it doesn’t matter that McCall looks at him with kindness now (that insufferable, infuriating kindness), or that Isaac has started sitting with him during lunch, or that Derek doesn’t want to kill him anymore, or that Lydia still calls herself his even though he can tell she fucking _knows_ he doesn’t really love her (and probably feels the same way). It doesn’t even matter that he’s a God damn werewolf. Because the mask is off, and he can’t see whatever the fuck everyone else seems to see. 

Underneath the evil, there’s just deeper evil.

 

**IV.**

Stilinski is the only one who gets it. The only one who doesn’t treat Jackson like he’s made of glass, like he’s somehow a better person just because he died for, like, a second. Sure, part of it is jealousy. That’s to be expected. He doesn’t think Jackson deserves Lydia - thinks _he_ deserves her - and he resents him for it. 

And he’s right.

The kid is smart. Jackson isn’t sure why he was never able to see it before. So Stiles is a bit of a spastic, can’t quite stop all of his thoughts from running together, doesn’t know when to shut the hell up. So he isn’t the suavest guy, isn’t the strongest of the group. He’s the only one of the bunch who can still see straight through Jackson’s bullshit. The only one who still hates his guts.

Jackson clings to that hate like a lifeline. It fuels his own lust for destruction, satiates his desire to be despised. Those dark urges aren’t getting their fix anywhere else. Might as well revel in the contempt of the Sheriff’s son.

 

**V.**

It’s takes nearly a month, but the day eventually comes, and he arrives home after school to find Peter waiting for him in his bedroom, sitting on the swivel chair by the desk with his legs crossed and hands folded together in his lap. 

“Umm...” Jackson starts.

“It’s over,” Peter says, silky smooth. “We’re ready for you.”

Jackson’s backpack dangles from the crook of his elbow, swinging gently to and fro. He lets it drop to the floor. “So...the other pack?”

Peter shrugs, presses his tongue briefly into the corner of his cheek. “Handled. The family is whole again.”

“The family?” Jackson frowns. He jerks away as Peter rises out of the chair, moves close into his space. The older werewolf's breath tickles at his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He feels a little nauseous.

“Boyd and Erica,” Peter murmurs. “They’ve returned to us.” His eyes flicker over Jackson’s face, appraising. “Pack is family.”

Nervous and irritated, Jackson places his palms flat against Peter’s chest, shoves him slowly away. “Whatever you say, dude.”

Peter snorts. Turns. “Tomorrow. Bright and early.” And then he’s exiting, leaping out over the roof’s edge, dropping out of sight without a sound.

 

 **VI.**  

He’s always gotten a thrill from manipulating his body into performing incredible feats of strength. It’s why he got involved in sports in the first place. Most everyone who knows him probably assumes it’s a narcissistic thing, that he just wants people to admire him, strive to be him. To lust after him. At times, it feels like even his parents share that mindset. The truth goes so much deeper. It’s not _just_ the adrenaline rush or the popularity; it’s about being able to do something, and do it well. Lacrosse is something he can look at and think, _Yeah. This I can do._

So it’s a disappointment to discover that werewolf training doesn’t give him the sense of self worth he so desperately needs. 

The sun is a fiery blot stain splayed out in rays of light across the bluest of skies, visible in all its radiant color even through the thorny nest of intertwined branches and brittle leaves clinging to thick spiderweb limbs. Hunched in the shade of the slanted trees, he darts right and left, dodges Derek’s swiping claws and well-aimed nips, rolls between his legs to jump up from behind. He wraps his arms around the Alpha’s middle, buries his face into the curve of his neck, feigning a killing bite. Derek stops, taps his arm as a signal, and Jackson releases him, drops away into a submissive crouch.

He’s breathing hard, heart hammering away in his ribcage. The smell of bark and sweat fills his nostrils, the taste of honeysuckle lingering on his tongue as he inhales through his mouth. Everything is sharp, crystalline.

Derek grunts approvingly, lips twitching into the slightest of smiles. “You’re doing very well,” he says sincerely, claps a hand down on Jackson’s shoulder. “You’re catching on a lot faster than the others.”

It’s the sort of compliment that used to stroke Jackson’s ego, and it still does, to a degree. But it feels strangely lifeless, dull. And Jackson can’t help but think, _Is this it?_ Because becoming a werewolf - that was never the endgame. That was always a means to an end, a path to greater happiness. What he really wanted...what he really _wants_ is to be someone else. Anyone else. Anyone other than himself. 

All these powers have done is transform him into a stronger, faster version of the person he already was.

Jackson forces a smile. “Well, it’s not like I’m starting from the ground floor. I was the kanima for a while.”

Derek waves that off. “You weren’t aware of it.”

Jackson rubs his bicep, stands up slowly. “Still. Sense memory, you know? My body remembers being able to do all of that crazy shit, even if I don’t.”

“Hmm.” Derek nods, gestures for Jackson to get in position. “Again. Once more.”

The heat beats down on them as the day wears on, and they strip down to their shorts as the clouds begin to part. Jackson’s legs sting with sweat, turn dark with powdered dirt. Derek’s claws rip shallow slashes into the sensitive skin up the length of his arms, further down near his hips. They circle each other, half-playful, half-feral. They wrestle in the muck.

Derek gets the upper hand and manages to pin Jackson to the forest floor, back slammed up against the protruding root of a great oak tree. His fingers dig into the flesh of Jackson’s shoulders, drawing streams of blood. His body presses down into Jackson’s hips, holding him in place.

Jackson’s stomach lurches, and he feels his body start to seize up. “Get off!” His voice comes out hoarse, strained. He can’t manage to control the note of panic in his tone. “You win, okay?! Get off!”

Something in the way he says it must sound convincing because Derek backs away almost immediately, jumps to his feet instead of asserting his dominance. There’s an odd look in his eye, expression indiscernible, distant. Jackson stands shakily, not meeting the Alpha’s gaze. He wipes the dirt and leaves off his arms in quick, angry brushstrokes. The cuts in his shoulders are already healing.

“You win,” he mumbles again. “Want to go again?”

He glances up. Derek stares at him, shakes his head. “No. I think that’s good for now.”

They redress in silence, looking pointedly in opposite directions. The wildlife has fallen eerily silent. 

Walking back up the trail to the road, Derek clears his throat, reaches around to scratch the back of his neck. “So...” he starts, obviously uncomfortable.

“Yes?” Jackson snaps. Then, more respectfully, “Yeah?”

Derek still isn’t looking at him. “So, _do_ you remember anything? About your time under Matt and Gerard’s influence?”

Jackson glances over, shakes his head once, firmly. “No.”

 

**VII.**

He does. He’s been fighting it back, pushing the memories away when they blink into existence like a scattershot slipstream, trying to tell himself it’s just his imagination. Just feverish dreams. 

But he knows that’s a lie. 

The killings aren’t so bad, as horrible as that is to even think. But that’s mostly because those memories aren’t the clearest; they’re fuzzy, indistinct. He was fully shifted during the murders, completely out of his mind. Whatever visions of blood and terror dance before his eyes in the dark of the night are quick and quiet and soon forgotten. He wasn’t himself. That’s the mantra he repeats in his head, over and over again. It’s the only way he knows how to manage the guilt: by not allowing himself to feel it. Accepting moral responsibility for the kanima’s crimes would only drive him to madness.

No, what keeps him awake is...the rest. The things he remembers in a state of half-shifting, living in a state between man and beast. Under the spell, but aware of it.

He sees it: his own face distorted in the bedroom mirror, foreign and strange. Monstrous with its reptilian eyes, pupils stretched into thin slits. Watching dark green scales receding back into his skin, peeling away from his cheek and dropping to the carpet. Feeling that cold, clammy hand on the back of his neck.

Matt’s voice. 

“You’ve been so good to me. So helpful.” The hand again, thumb rubbing in slow, smooth circles. “I feel like I should thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

The other hand on his chest, pushing him back on the bed. His brain broken, confused, unsure. Disliking. The hands together, moving up his arms and coming together to undo the top button of his shirt. The voice, murmuring in his left ear, “I’ll make it so good for you. Just stay still. Enjoy it.”

And now the mouth - the _tongue_ , wet and warm and licking a path up from his collarbone to his jaw. Breath in his ear, kiss to his cheek. Then lips against his own, the tongue invading his space and suffocating him, the taste of juice and smoke and boy all intermingled into a single flavor. The hands on his body, on his skin. 

Then undressed: the mouth on his neck, the hands moving his legs apart and bending them back. The cock, searing heat, frightening _alive_ in a way...

The memories usually come in flashes, not all at the same time. But the pieces are all there, easy enough to put together. Multiple instances, if the visions are true.

And Jackson knows they are. Why else would they be swimming around in his subconscious? Nevertheless, he dares not speak these thoughts aloud. There’s a word for this, a word for what has happened to him, but he refuses to dwell on it, to think of it. _That_ is something for other people. There’s no room for any more poison in his life, and he can’t allow it to be real. It _isn’t_ real.

[Except it is. All too much.]

 

**VIII.**

The people he knows live in boxes in his head.

There’s one for Lydia - a large one, a significant one - and the walls are strawberry blonde, slicked down with paint and permeated with the aroma of lilacs. There are words here: girlfriend, lover, friend, burden, salvation, human. Everything that Lydia makes him think and feel, all crammed together in a single space. Just for her.

There’s another for McCall, smaller but present, and the walls chart the progress of their slowly shifting antagonism - not friendship, _never_ that. There’s one for Danny, one for his parents, one for Derek. For everyone he knows. It’s a method to manage the madness, to keep up some internalized system of organization. To keep his mind as clear as it can be.

His thoughts, he notices, tend to revolve around his perception of others, rather than their perception of him. That means something, of course, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to open any more doors than he has to. He knows he’s damaged. Why poke the bear with a stick? Let him rest.

The other thing: there’s a box in the back, kept open at all times for easy access. It belongs to Stiles Stilinski, and Jackson goes to exist in that space sometimes. There’s a comfort in the lack of pretension, in the utter simplicity to their relationship. It’s mutual hatred built on self-loathing and failure with love. 

What could be more perfect?

 

**IX.**

“You know, I haven’t asked you about this at all...” Danny begins, toweling off his hair and pointedly not looking in Jackson’s direction.

Jackson represses a sigh, glances around to make sure the locker room is actually empty. “Uh huh?”

The tap in the shower stall at the end of the row hasn’t been turned all the way, and the steady drip of the water beads on the tile starts to drum a bleeding tattoo into his eardrum. Danny plops down on the bench beside him, thrusting his arms through the sleeve holes of his grey t-shirt. His eyebrows knit together, lip caught between his teeth. “Is it true that you were, like, clinically dead? On the field, before they revived you?”

Jackson considers lying, all for a second, but he just ends up shrugging and saying, “Yeah. What about it?”

Danny’s lip looks like it might pop, he’s biting down so hard. “Just...what was that like? Being dead?”

 _Drip. Drip. Drip_.

Jackson stands, pulls the strap of his backpack across his shoulder. “I’m going to class.”

 

**X.**

It’s Stiles’ birthday, and somehow he’s been roped into attending. Something about being invited by association with Lydia. The kid opts for a small gathering at Scott’s house, no decorations, no big fuss. Scott’s made him a giant cake, and it looks simultaneously delicious and profoundly disgusting. Derek actually shows, and Peter too. Jackson would poke fun at the supposed adults spending their free time hanging out with teenagers, but he can’t find the energy. 

Casual nastiness isn’t as fun as it used to be.

Allison is there, surprisingly enough. Jackson wasn’t aware that she’d continued being friends with Stiles after her split with McCall. She’s lurking in the back with Lydia, gossiping and keeping away from her ex, not even glancing in his direction. Scott responds in kind.

The party turns out fine, far less irritating than Jackson had imagined. Derek broods in silence, glaring at the wall and pretending to listen as Stiles babbles on and on about something or other, Peter standing close by and watching with amusement. Erica drifts between eavesdropping on their conversation and participating in the chatter between Isaac, Boyd, and Scott. Jackson sits alone in the armchair by the fireplace, gazing into the empty hearth until the talk dies down and Stiles announces that it’s time to cut the cake and open gifts.

Scott’s mother is working the graveyard shift, but he still insists on shooing them away after two in the morning. “What, do you guys want to _sleep_ here?” he grumbles. “And have her walk in on you? Yeah, right. Everybody except Stiles has to leave.”

They file out in a cluster, stepping over the torn shreds of wrapping paper and deflated balloons on their way to the door. Lydia sidles up beside Jackson and snakes her arm around his waist, leans her head on his shoulder in a mock-sleepy gesture. He immediately turns, looks over his shoulder - like a purely reflex move - meets Stiles’ eye. The boy’s jaw is set, tight, but there’s nothing in his expression beyond that to betray a hint of what might be going on in his head. 

They stare at each other for a moment, a few seconds that seem to last eons. And then Jackson turns away, lets Lydia drag him outside as she waves goodbye and flashes Stiles a white-toothed smile. 

“Well, it’s the best party without booze I’ve ever been to,” she remarks drily, practically the instant the door closes. “I’ll give it that much.” She steps up on her tip-toes and presses a kiss against his cheek. He tries not to shudder away from the contact. “Let’s go pick up some drinks.”

He nods, cheerlessly compliant. He looks to the left, watches the rest of the pack recede into the darkness. Erica and Boyd’s eyes flash briefly, observing him with detached amusement. Derek and Peter are pressed close together, talking in voices too low to hear.

Lydia pokes him in the side, frowns. “Or, you can go hang out with your friends,” she offers delicately. It’s an uneasy subject between them; the werewolf thing. [Short version: she wants as little to do with it as possible. Understandably so.]

Jackson shakes his head. “I’d rather drink with you than ‘hang out’ with them,” he answers honestly. “Even if I can’t get drunk.”

Lydia beams at him, hums in quiet satisfaction. They break apart at the end of the driveway, moving around to opposite sides of the car. Jackson lets out a soundless sigh of relief, finally able to breathe in his own space. He looks to the windows, tries to spot Stiles. The blinds are closed.

 

**XI.**

He’s drifting through the reeds. 

In school and at home and in life, his thoughts all run together in a constant stream of uninterrupted gibberish. He wonders vaguely if this is what it’s like for Stilinski all the time. Just scatterbrained ideas and dreams and feelings bouncing around like a whiz-bang game of pinball. 

Large chunks of each day are filled with pornographic visions, all layered over one another in repetition: sweat and skin and the smell of soap and lavender, legs spread wide and breasts laid bare, heavy breathing. The works. There’s no heat behind it, though. It’s just white noise, meaningless visuals. He doesn’t even get hard.

Still, he can’t keep his mind off of it: sex, forever on the brain.

In practice, his drive has all but sputtered to a complete halt. He can’t stand to touch Lydia anymore, can’t handle being touched. She’s noticed, of course, even if she hasn’t had the heart to bring it up to him in conversation. It’s all in her eyes; the look of pity and concern, frustration and insecurity. He really ought to give her the speech, say, _It’s not you, it’s me_. No matter how cliché that may sound. She deserves that much.

But he can’t, and he won’t. Because that will just lead to questions, which will lead to things better left buried. Private things that belong to him, that not even Lydia Martin has the right to know.

It’s spring now, but the world has never felt colder. Deader. Only in his dreams does he feel the heat: spearing inside of him, filling him up, trailing up his chest and neck and into his mouth.

He keeps these things within the confines of the icy cage that has formed around his heart, silently hoping that they won’t be exposed come summer thaw.

 

**XII.**

“You know Derek is probably going to get annoyed with you if he can smell me on you,” Scott says conversationally, popping open the top of his juice box with the sharp end of his straw. He nods in the direction of the table in the corner of the cafeteria, makes brief eye contact with Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. “Not that I’m sending you away or anything, but it just seems like you would want to sit with your own pack...right?”

Jackson fidgets in his seat, glances over his shoulder at the back table where Stiles is chatting with Allison and Lydia. None of them notice him. “Why don’t you want to join up with the rest of us?” he asks, turning back to Scott. “Strength in numbers, and all that shit...”

Scott slurps his juice, takes a bite of his apple. He chews slowly, tilting his head, forehead creasing with wrinkles as his mouth turns down in a thoughtful frown. “I don’t like the way Derek does things,” he says after a while. “And I don’t trust Peter.”

“Neither do I. On both counts.” Jackson opens up his lunch bag and pulls out a turkey sandwich. “The point remains. A larger pack is a stronger force.”

“A stronger force,” Scott repeats. His frown deepens. He leans forward slightly. “What exactly do you think this is? Who is it that we’re supposed to be fighting? Peter took care of the Alpha pack. Boyd and Erica are back safe. _You’re_ alive. Chris Argent isn’t going to start any shit so long as we don’t.” He leans back, shrugs. “Wartime’s over, man.”

Jackson huffs, annoyed. “What, so there’ll _never_ be another threat? You really think that?”

Scott sets down his juice. “I didn’t say never. But I’m not sure what it is you’re worried about.” His mouth slants up at the side. “I mean, come on, _Derek_ went to _Stiles’ birthday party_. Is that not a clear enough indication that we’re living in peaceful times?”

“Whatever.” Jackson rips viciously into his sandwich. Scott’s frown returns.

“I don’t understand you,” he sighs. “Things are good. Do you _want_ to be fighting for your life again? Wasn’t dying once enough?”

Jackson pauses, looks up at him. They stare at each other for a moment, then Jackson snatches up his lunch bag and stands abruptly. “Nothing’s ever enough,” he retorts, then walks away.

 

**XIII.**

Scott is wrong, as it turns out. Peter is the one who ends up being annoyed with Jackson’s behavior.

“Woah! Okay, what? Am I missing something?” Jackson blinks in bewilderment, suddenly finding himself being steered backwards through the living room and dumped unceremoniously on a ratty mattress. Peter is looming over him, eyes glimmering with dark fire, and Jackson maybe starts to panic a little bit before the older werewolf slowly backs off.

“Obviously, we will not forbid you from interacting with your friends,” Peter says smoothly, totally nonchalant. “However, it is pertinent that you smell like pack. You are one of us. Start acting like it.”

He snaps his fingers, beckoning the others in from the other room. Boyd drops down onto the mattress beside Jackson, casually allowing his arm to press up against the other boy’s shoulder. Erica flashes Jackson a winning smile - or maybe it’s a smirk - and sinks down between his knees, curls up and rests her head on his thigh. Isaac moves in from the other side, tucks Jackson’s head underneath his chin. Blinking in the dark and the dust, Jackson stares determinedly at a spot on the ceiling, painfully aware that everyone in the room can hear the pounding of his heartbeat.

“So. This is a regular activity then?” he mutters. Derek rises up out of nowhere, standing alongside Peter and staring down at him with a creepy sort of focused intensity.

“You’ll learn not to mind it after a while,” he says, and it’s almost like he’s trying to _soothe_ Jackson. To make him okay with this.

Peter scratches his chin absently. “You’ll grow to like it, I think,” he says, exuding self-confidence. He turns on his heel, vanishes from Jackson’s line of sight. “I’ll leave you kids to it then.”

Derek remains, arms folded across his chest, watching his Betas curl around one another on the ratty mattress. His poker face is unmoving, stone-like. His eyes never leave Jackson’s.

It starts out okay, for perhaps twenty minutes. Jackson just lets it happen, tries to think of it as taking a nap. Boyd is the easiest to put up with: he just lies on his back, pressed up against Jackson’s side, but not touching. Not invading his space. Erica stays uncomfortably close to his groin, but she’s asleep fairly quickly, doesn’t tease him. Jackson tries to relax and slow the pitter-patter of his heart, to hone in on the soothing noise of air whistling in and out through Isaac’s nose. But then Isaac snuggles in closer, lazily throwing an arm across his chest and clutching tighter. Jackson stiffens.

It’s all too much: a hard body against his own, flat planes of muscle where there ought to be soft flesh, the frightening closeness of another’s face near his [another’s mouth near his], the warm furnace radiating against his skin.

Jackson jerks away, scrambles to his feet. Isaac makes a surprised sound, backing off, and Erica startles awake, scowls at him for interrupting her slumber. Boyd just raises an eyebrow.

“I think I’m good for now,” Jackson grits out. “I’m sure I reek of you guys.”

He looks to Derek for permission to leave, and the Alpha nods in assent. The werewolf’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a familiar flicker in his eyes that makes Jackson’s stomach turn over. Because he knows that look; it’s the one he’s grown all to accustomed to getting from Danny, from his parents, from Lydia. From damn near everyone he comes in contact with nowadays. It’s pity.

“Start interacting with the pack at school,” Derek says. “And you won’t have to do this as often.”

Jackson nods tightly, leaves without a second glance back. He doesn’t need their concern, can’t stand the nauseating sympathy. He’d rather have indifference. Or hate.

[Or Stiles Stilinski.]

 

**XIV.**

They’re alone in the locker room when the tension boils over - because _of course_ everything inevitably comes to a head. Jackson doesn’t even notice that it’s just the two of them until Danny claps him on the shoulder and says he’ll swing by the house later in the afternoon when he’s finished with homework. The door creaks and snaps shut, and Jackson looks up, and he’s sitting by himself on the bench. And Stiles is changing at the end of the row, head buried in his locker, rummaging around inside.

Jackson chews on his lip, staring. He’s not sure what it is he’s doing here, but he goes for it anyway.

“So I’ve been wondering,” he says loudly, watching for Stiles’ reaction. The boy pauses, listens, but he doesn’t look over. Jackson clears his throat, continues. “So I’ve been wondering, are you still head over heels for my girlfriend, or have you finally substituted that fantasy for something a little more realistic?” 

‘My girlfriend,’ he says. Like Lydia is a fucking car that he owns.

Stiles closes his locker, turns to face him. His expression is as blanked-out and distant as Derek’s trademark glower, but it lacks any trace of pity or understanding. Jackson drinks it in. “I’m not doing this with you,” Stiles says, tone a masterwork of forced calm. There’s a muscle pulsing in his jaw, the skin across his knuckles turning white with the exertion of restraining the urge to lash out.

Jackson stands up, peels off his lacrosse jersey. “Doing this?” he says innocently. He pulls on a clean t-shirt, runs a hand loosely through his damp hair. “Doing what?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, bends down to start cramming his dirty clothes into the back pouch of his book bag. “What do you want, dude? Are you trying to get me to fight you? That’s stupid. Like, you’re a _werewolf_ , okay? I’m not going to be able to beat you. I don’t even understand why you’d think that would fun. It’s not like it would be a challenge.” He stands up, brushes off his knees. “Or are you just bored, and picking on me is just something easy to fall back on?”

The kid has never been especially afraid of Jackson, never really seemed to buy into the ‘cook guys run the school’ mentality. But Jackson can’t remember ever seeing this level of confidence before. Can’t remember this degree of disdain. It’s a thing of beauty.

“No, I’m just genuinely curious,” he drawls. “Do you really think you’ve got a chance with her? Even now?”

Stiles looks for a moment like he might just storm away, flip him off. Maybe punch him in the face. But then the tightness around his eyes loosens, turns sly. His mouth twists into something new, almost nasty. “Eventually she’ll get bored of you,” he replies, enunciating every word carefully, injecting every syllable with venom. Aiming to hurt. “She’ll see what apparently only I can see. That you’re not any better than you used to be. That you’re still a jerk. That she deserves better.”

The words cut deep, simultaneously cathartic and painful. Jackson’s eyes flash. “What, like she’d be better off with you?” he sneers. And then, without warning, the thing that’s been crouching in the murky shadows of his heart decides to swim to the surface. “Don’t forget that I heard you that night, Stilinski. I _heard_ you.”

Stiles’ bitter smile vanishes, replaced by confusion. “Heard what?”

Jackson swallows. There’s a lump in his throat, and he’s not even sure why. “You wanted me dead,” he whispers, spitting the words out. “Remember? You wanted to kill me so you could have her for yourself. And you really think you’re a better person than me?”

Something strange, something alien flashes across Stiles’ face. Guilt, perhaps? Pain, embarrassment? Weariness, definitely. “That’s so unfair,” he says quietly. “You know that’s not true.”

“You wanted to kill me,” Jackson repeats stubbornly, stepping closer, eyes boring holes into Stiles’. “At least have the fucking balls to admit it.”

Stiles’ jaw clenches. “I didn’t know you weren’t in control of yourself,” he says after a moment’s pause. “I thought you were killing those people because...” He trails off, gets a distant look on his face. His shoulders sag. “I’m not sure what I thought,” he sighs. He straightens up, angry again. “But I didn’t want you dead so I could steal your _girlfriend_ , you idiot. I’m not a psychopath.”

Jackson shakes his head, crosses his arms, folds them protectively over himself. “Maybe you didn’t think of it that way, but that _is_ what you wanted. You would have slit my throat and left me for dead in the woods, and you probably wouldn’t have shed a God damn tear over it.”

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._ The water flow in the last shower stall never ceases in its ambient tempo. The boys stare at each other, stone-faced. Jackson can hear the hitch in Stiles’ heartbeat.

“It’s not like you’ve given me any reason to mourn you,” Stiles replies. His left eye twitches. “But for your information, I _would_ have felt like shit. I still have nightmares about that day, even though we didn’t actually do it. We came really close, and it fucking haunts me that I almost killed you. So don’t you dare say differently.” He steps closer, jabs his forefinger into Jackson’s chest, hard. “You’re an asshole, and we’ll probably never be friends. I don’t _want_ to be friends with you. But if you really think I’d kill you to get a girl - even a girl like Lydia Martin - then you’re even more screwed up than I thought-”

Jackson cuts him off, clocking him across the jaw with a balled up fist. He can feel the shift rising up, the claws coming out. His eyes are blazing, mouth twisted into a snarl. 

But he’s caught off guard when Stiles wheels around on him, face contorted in fury. The kid snaps, leaps at him and shoves him back against the locker, throwing punches in a sort of manic frenzy. And like that, Jackson feels the shift recede, and the wolf dies down. Dies down to the point that it almost feels like it’s _gone_ , and all of his instinct to fight back just evaporates. He stands frozen, doesn’t move as Stiles’ fists pound into his face, into his stomach. His nose breaks, drawing blood, then promptly heals, bone snapping back into place. He gasps in pain as Stiles’ knee connects with his ribcage.

Crashing backwards to the floor, he reaches up out of reflect, hooking his hand around the nape of Stiles’ neck and pulling the boy down with him. And then they’re on the ground, lying in a heap and breathing hard. Stiles’ eyes are wide, like he’s shocked by his own actions. His hands are planted open-palmed on either side of Jackson’s head, framing him in place.

Jackson looks up at him, breathes in deeply. Searching past the pungent stench of his own bloody nose, he finds himself drowning in the scents of soap and earth, fresh cut grass and Cherry Coke. There’s the smell of boy as well, but it’s different than...before. [Than with Matt.] It’s real and it’s human and it’s _here_ , and Jackson _needs_. He needs, even though it’s another hard body and another mouth, another chin with pinpricks of stubble and arms with lean muscle. It’s everything he has no interest in beyond owning himself, beyond the narcissistic pleasure of examining his own body in a mirror. And yet.

And yet, he needs.

He pushes up, acting on instinct, crashes his mouth over Stiles’, sucking the boy’s lower lip in between his teeth, nipping - not hard enough to cut the flesh, just enough to sting. Stiles gasps, jerks away almost immediately. And Jackson can’t help the soft whine that escapes him at the loss of contact.

They stare at each other, wide-eyed and frozen. Jackson lets his head drop back against the floor, squirming in discomfort. His cheek flush red, burning with shame. He closes his eyes, feeling the lump rising up in his throat once again.

“Hey.” Stiles’ voice, speaking softly, hardly more than a whisper. Jackson shakes his head, eyes still shut. “Hey...” Even softer, gentler. Jackson blinks, eyes opening as Stiles’ palm comes up to cup his cheek. The boy still looks bewildered, but the harshness behind his eyes seems diminished. “What was that?”

“Are you really asking me that?” Jackson mutters, irritated. He suddenly finds the will to move again, pressing his hands against Stiles’ chest and pushing him away. He sits up with a grunt, scoots over to rest his back against the row of lockers. Stiles moves closer, sits beside him.

“I mean, I know what it _was._ Obviously. I guess I’m asking, you know, _why_?”

Jackson can’t meet his gaze, afraid of what he’ll see there. He stares instead at his own hands, clasped together and resting on the bridge of his knees. “I don’t really know,” he admits.

They sit in silence for some time, hunched over and exhausted, resting against the lockers. The flow of water from the tap in the last stall continues in its never-ending rhythm of monotone dripping. It’s the sound that echoes above the muffled commotion of students outside finishing up with their end-of-school chatter in the hallways.

Stiles fidgets, picking at his nails, blowing on his knuckles. He whistles tunelessly. Pausing abruptly, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it? Whatever’s wrong with you? Because clearly something is.”

He doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing, isn’t trying to be mean. And for a split second, Jackson actually considers taking him up on the offer. But then his lip curls in defiance, and he’s standing up and brushing off his sleeves. “Talk? To you?” He snorts, lifts his backpack over his shoulder. “Yeah, right.”

He stalks away and doesn’t look back. And he feels lucky that Stiles’ isn’t a werewolf and can’t hear the cadence of his heartbeat, the rhythm betraying his lie.

 

**XV.**

His movie nights with Lydia have grown increasingly awkward: cheesy rom-coms watched in the velveteen darkness of her living room, sitting on opposite sides of the couch, not touching. She sits at an angle, head resting on the fluffiest of the couch cushions, curled up under the weight of a patchwork quilt. He sits upright, hands folded in his lap, rigid. Like he’s even forgotten how to just fucking _exist_ in peace for a couple of hours.

“You deserve better, you know,” he says on one such night, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

He feels more than sees Lydia turn to look at him, her face twisting into frustration and annoyance. “What?”

“You should be with someone better."

Lydia snatches the remote off the coffee table, pauses the movie. She turns her whole body to face him directly, blanket yanked up to her neck. She scowls at him. “Okay, so is this your way of breaking up with me? Again.”

Jackson sighs, rubs his hands up and down his face. “No, I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just saying.” He tilts his shoulders into a one-sided shrug. “I’m not...” He trails off. “I’m not _good_ at this. I don’t think I know how to not be selfish.”

“You’re not perfect, yeah,” Lydia replies easily, brow still furrowed. “You’ve got your issues. But so do I. And so will anyone else I might want to date. I like you. I like what we have, even if we have to work at it a lot of the time.” Her mouth purses into an O-shape, slightly parted. She licks her lower lip, slowly, thoughtfully. “I wish you’d talk to me about stuff, but I know that’s not how you do things.”

“You could be with someone who does,” Jackson says. He tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling. “I’m sure Stilinski would be plenty happy to talk your ear off.”

Lydia glares. “Are you sure you’re not trying to break up with me?” She runs her fingers through her hair, tucks a stray lock behind her ear. “Stiles and I are closer now, but I don’t have romantic feelings for him. It’s just that simple.”

Jackson nods. “I guess it is.” Lydia leans over, and he digs his fingernails into his thighs to refrain from flinching when she kisses his cheek. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” she murmurs, slowly pulling away. “We’re gonna be fine.”

And that’s the end of that conversation. It’s a fucking cop out, and it resolves nothing. Story of Jackson’s life.

 

**XVI.**

It’s all helter skelter: listless days of monotony and routine, training with the pack and trading meaningful glances across vast rooms, lying entangled on the mattress in the dark and trying not to scream at the skin-crawling sensation of his fellows pressing close and breathing in his ear, shaping his body into a tool for lacrosse and for show and for the fucking sake of it, and going to bed at night and doing the whole damn thing over again in the morning.

Derek treats him like china, partly because he seems to think Jackson’s weak, partly because he’s afraid of falling prey to arrogance again. He relies on Peter’s guidance for most of his decisions nowadays. Jackson doesn’t understand how the two of them can possibly get past their history, but they make it work. Somehow. [At least on the outside.]

Jackson is a part of the pack, and he’s treated like such. But he still feels like an outsider. Standing together, the hierarchy feels like _DerekAndPeter_ , and _BoydAndEricaAndIsaac_. And then Jackson. Separate but equal.

So not equal at all.

And maybe it’s just in his head, just his own neuroses playing tricks on him, but the feeling is still _there_ , very palpable and very real. Most of the time - as hard as it is to admit to himself - he’d rather be with Scott’s pack. Meaning Scott and Stiles.

[Meaning Stiles.]

All the while, the nightmares continue. He’ll shut his eyes and lie back, sink into the sheets and hear that sickly sweet voice: “Good boy,” it will say, a cacophonous sound from which he cannot escape. “Just like that. Such a good boy...”

 

**XVII.**

He likes to run through the woods and pretend it’s a jungle. He’ll stampeded blindly forward, inviting the whipping of tree branches against his face, imagining them to be great leaves in the brush. His ears are so sharply attuned to the noises of nature that it’s not too difficult to think of the mosquito whine and chirping of birds as the soundtrack of the Amazon.

There’s peace in this fantasy because it removes him from the real and transports him to a place far away. Somewhere where his demons can’t haunt him.

He runs to the river and strips down to nothing, gooseflesh breaking out all across his arms and chest, and he breathes in the sharp aroma of water foul and shallow muck, listens to the splashing of fish surfacing and slapping up on the slippery rocks. He dives into the deep, swims down to the bottom and sits cross-legged, allowing his body to slowly drift back up into the light.

Afterwards, he lies on the riverbank, and it is here that it all comes together in his head. Where his need finally outweighs his pride.

Redressing, he allows the shift to come, charges through the undergrowth leading up to the highway. Shaking off the leaves that cling to his cotton t-shirt, he forces himself to walk as he turns onto the street, heading for the house down on the left with the crooked mailbox. As he approaches, he breaks out into a quick jog, cutting through the bushes and scaling the side wall.

“I need you to touch me,” he says in lieu of a greeting as he drops in through the window into Stiles’ bedroom, crouching on the carpet and staring unblinkingly into the eyes of the surprised boy in the chair by the desk.

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry, what?”

Jackson stands, moving further into Stiles’ space. “You heard right.” He presses in close, enjoying the hitch in the other boy’s breathing as their lips ghost over one another, almost sealing together. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Danny always said he got a vibe from you, even though you aren’t his type. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“About you?” Stiles shoves him away. “Are you being serious right now?”

Jackson shakes his head, swallows thickly. “About guys. You play for both teams, don’t you.”

Stiles looks torn between annoyance and embarrassment. His cheeks tinge pink, mouth turning down into a scowl. “What the hell is this about, Jackson?” His eyes go wide as Jackson leans over him again and tries to pry his legs apart. 

“Please,” Jackson says, hating the desperation in his voice, but not enough to stop. Acting on impulse, he tilts his head and opens his mouth against the side of Stiles’ neck., pressing a kiss against the flushed skin there. “Please don’t say no.”

He rocks his hips forward, presses his groin into Stiles’ leg. “Jackson...” the boy says, shaky. It’s not an invitation, but Jackson can smell the tentative arousal cutting through the anger and frustration.

“Come _on_..."

Stiles stiffens, right on the verge of either giving in or shoving back. He’s switching between the two, and that’s good; Jackson wants to make him snap. He wants to push Stiles over the edge, drive the boy to punch him again, to pin him down against the desk and fuck him senseless, fuck him until he bleeds. He might want to be touched in a good way, to feel normal again - he might _long_ for that, even - but what he _needs_ goes deeper. 

He needs to be wrecked.

“No.” Stiles’ hands are on his chest, pushing him away again. His expression is clouded, calculating. “ _No_ , okay? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this is fucked up, even by our standards. You don’t even _like_ me, remember?”

Jackson huffs - whines, really - toes curling, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “What the fuck does that have to do with it?” he asks, teeth gritted together. 

Stiles is looking at him with something akin to horror. “Jesus...” he murmurs. “What _happened_ to you?”

The air conditioner kicks to life, whirring rotors creating a sort of ringing in Jackson’s ears. He feels like his head is spinning. He flinches, anger draining away. Schooling his expression into something obscenely neutral, he nods jerkily, backs up a few feet. “Fine,” he says. “See you around.” 

He’s ducking out through the window, ignoring whatever it is that Stiles is calling after him. The ringing echoes in his head for the entire run home.

 

**XVIII.**

The downtown arcade is closing in two weeks, and Jackson wants to get in all the game time he can before then. Call it nostalgia.

“These graphics are terrible,” Danny grumbles at his right, squinting over the barrel of the blue plastic pistol and squeezing the trigger as the pixelated deer leaps out from the dark green bushes.

Jackson hums indifferently. He holds his pistol out in front of him, arm straight and rigid.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

“Lydia texted me this morning, said she wanted to go bowling later,” Danny continues. “That sound good to you?”

Jackson nods wordlessly, lowering the gun as the screen flashes _Game Over_ in bright red letters. He closes his eyes for a moment, and the crimson color bleeds into his mind: the hair-raising screams cut short as the kanima’s claws slice through skin and soft tissue, spraying forth geysers of blood and injecting poison into bulging veins. 

He opens his eyes and loads another pair of quarters into the slot, starts the game up again. He raises the gun.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

 

**XIX.**

He’s sure there’s something to be said about the fact that full moons actually come as a blessing for a guy like him. But he’s not going to try and examine that too closely.

Sure, the full shift is unbelievably painful, and the lack of control is especially frightening. But the pack is with him, and they provide comfort. And there’s a freedom in being able to get outside of his mind for a single night, to escape from the ceaseless train of misery and hatred and despair. Given the choice between psychic wounds and physical agony, he’ll take the latter every time.

Pain he can deal with. Soul-searching is a living nightmare.

“Wake up.” Derek is rapping his open palm against Jackson’s cheek, and none too gently. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Peter calls from one of the other rooms.

Jackson blinks rapidly, sitting up and surveying his surroundings. The other Betas are slowly getting dressed, yawning and moving about groggily, exhausted from the stress of the previous night. “No one got hurt, right?”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Peter cuts over him. “Of course not. But it’s cute that you asked.” Derek glares at the wall, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He turns back to Jackson, expression softening, almost imperceptibly. 

“No,” he says. “Everyone’s fine."

Jackson nods, buttoning up his pants. “Alright then.”

  

**XX.**

The overhead lights shine through his eyelids, and he startles awake, returning to consciousness. The ceiling fan casts a cool breeze throughout the bedroom. 

He looks around, bewildered, freezing up at the sight of Stiles standing by the door with his hand on the light switch. “Stilinski, what the fuck?”

Stiles frowns, holds a finger up to his lips in a silencing gesture. “Quiet, do you want to wake up your parents?”

Jackson sits up all the way, uncomfortably aware of his semi-nudity, especially given the nature of their previous encounter. He crosses his arms protectively over himself, glaring. “They’re not here. What the hell are you doing in my house at...” He looks at the clock. “One in the morning? What do you want?”

A beat. Stiles frown slips away, expression contorting into uncertainty, doubt. He looks like he might just back off and leave without explanation, but then his eyes harden, turning steely with determination. He closes the door quietly, coming all the way into the room. Standing on the carpet before the bed, he looks down into Jackson’s eyes. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay, what?” Jackson rubs his forehead tiredly. He stiffens in alarm as Stiles sits down on the bedspread beside him.

“Okay, I’ll fuck you,” Stiles answers casually, like this is a totally normal situation. As if this is something they do all the time. Jackson can hear the kid’s heartbeat, so he _knows_ that Stiles is as nervous as he is. But the boy’s face betrays no hint of his anxiety.

Jackson takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” he fires back, trying for the same casualness, failing spectacularly. His voice manages to break even within the space of a single syllable. He juts his chin out in challenge. “Who says you get to do the fucking?”

Stiles gives him a skeptical look. Which is weird, since he can’t actually read minds, doesn’t _really_ know what Jackson has been fantasizing about over the past few weeks. Whatever. Jackson isn’t going to push his luck.

“Do you have lube, or something?” Stiles asks, no preamble. Fuck. If Jackson wasn’t so sure the other boy was a virgin...

“In the nightstand,” he replies. “Top drawer.”

He throws back the sheets as Stiles retrieves the bottle, stepping up to yank the chain on the fan and turn the lights down dim. He drops back down, shivering slightly as he lies on his back. Still clothed, Stiles scoots closer, lying on his side with his elbow propped up on the pillow. 

“I think it’s going to hurt at first,” he says, and there _is_ a slight waver in his voice now. That gives Jackson’s self-esteem a mild boost. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. That it hurts.”

Jackson nods, staring at the ceiling. “I know.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, but he tactfully doesn’t ask questions. His hand slinks over Jackson’s leg, crosses over his hips to wrap around his waist. He trails the tips of his fingers upward, over Jackson’s chest, his neck. He lets them graze against the boy’s cheek, curl in his hair. “I’m gonna...” He swallows. “I’m going get undressed now.”

Jackson rolls over, burying his face into his pillow. “Just do it,” he says, voice muffled.

His breathing starts to steady, heart rate slowing as he listens to the sounds of Stiles removing his clothes and throwing them aside. And when the other boy’s skin comes into contact with his own, he doesn’t feel the expected rush of panic.

It’s all just a blur after that.

 

**XXI.**

It’s another hard body covering his. Another mouth, another tongue. But instead of fear, there’s only need and desperation.

And not just his own. 

Stiles is on him like a wild thing, frantic and frustrated, unable to get enough. His lips are stung red, visibly swollen even in the semi-darkness, and he buries his face in the crook of Jackson’s neck, suckling and biting at the tenderest of spots. He’s more muscular than Jackson expected, and that _should_ be weird, but it just seems irrelevant. It’s just a shell. A decaying vessel very much like his own, rutting and pistoning and fucking in search of a climax: that single crystalizing moment of bliss before everything comes crashing back down to reality and consequences. Who cares if Stiles is a boy?

Jackson groans, bucking upward, shuddering at the sensation of Stiles’ fingernails digging hard into his hips, manhandling him into whatever position best suits their respective needs at the time. It’s all skin and sweat, searing hot [tongues/mouths/cocks]. There _is_ pain, but it’s manageable, and it’s insignificant in the face of their immediate gratification.

He can feel Stiles’ palms burning against the muscles of his chest, can hear the strangled panting behind his head. His fingers seek out contact anywhere he can: reaching up to grasp at Stiles’ biceps, curling around his neck, threading through the dusky hairs below his bellybutton. They're face to face: Stiles bending over him and knocking their foreheads together, Jackson grabbing his shoulders and pulling him closer, pressing his nose against the other boy's neck, his armpit, into the center of his chest. Sensations abundant.

“Fuck!” Jackson throws his head back, winces as he bangs against the headboard. Stiles spears into him, gasping brokenly, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching in rhythm. He’s good at this, although Jackson will never tell him that. 

It’s over in probably minutes, though it feels far longer, and Jackson tense up at the grossly sticky feeling of warmth filling up inside of him, cringes at the wet sound of Stiles withdrawing.

They lie together on top of the sheets, breathing hard, blissed out.

It feels like nirvana. Like catharsis. Enlightenment.

 

**XXII.**

Of course, the thing about enlightenment is this: it wears off.

Later, cleaning themselves up in the bathroom, reality seems a lot less sweet.

“What’s your excuse?” Jackson asks, sitting with his back pressed up against the cabinet under the sink, knees curled tightly to his chest. The floor tiles feel cold against his naked ass, the air muggy from the smell of sex.

Stiles raises his head and gives him a look. Sprawled out in the tub, his shoulders are foaming with soap bubbles, cheeks still flushed with heat. “My excuse?” Jackson nods.

“I know my reasons for...you know, _this_. What are yours?”

“Ah.” Stiles lets his head fall back, clunking dully on the rim of the tub. The water’s surface ripples as he splashes his face, wets his cheeks down. “You’re attractive,” he says easily, like it’s no big deal. Shrugs. “It’s not like you needed me to tell you that, stroke your titanic ego any more.”

Jackson frowns, rubs his thumb against his kneecap. “That’s it? You don’t know any hot people you actually like? Besides Lydia, I mean.”

Stiles shrugs again, but it’s less casual this time, more for show. He looks uncomfortable. “It’s not like there are people lining up to take a crack at this.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “You were willing. Actually you were _begging_.” He sucks on the inside of his cheek, staring at the wall. “You seemed like you needed it.”

“Hmm.” Jackson looks away, picks detachedly at his toenails. “And Lydia? You don’t think of this as betraying her?”

Stiles shoots him a sharp look. “ _You_ don’t?” he counters. Then, looking away, anger fading just as soon as it appeared, “She’s never going to date me.” He glances discreetly at Jackson out of the corner of his eye. “You think I don’t know that, but you’re wrong. I’m not an idiot.” Jackson bobs his head in agreement.

“You’re not an idiot. You’re just annoying as shit.” Stiles chuckles.

“I’ll take it.” He leans over the edge of the tub to prop his elbows up on the rim. “I have my demons, Jackson,” he says, suddenly serious. “You think you’ve got a monopoly on being fucked up, but that just isn’t true.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “I’ve never thought that.” Stiles grunts disbelievingly.

“Whatever you say.” He sits up straighter. “So what’s your excuse? I’m guessing not gay experimentation, since you’d probably do that with Danny. Or maybe not, since he’s your best friend...”

Jackson opens his mouth, closes it again. There are all sorts of things he could say, long and short, with varying degrees of truth. What eventually comes out is, “Matt raped me.”

Stiles draws in a sharp breath, heart skipping a beat. He closes his eyes. Jackson clenches his jaw, prepares for the inevitable condolences, the sympathies.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Stiles asks softly. Jackson huffs a bitter little laugh.

“No.” 

Stiles chews on his lip. “Okay.”

They don’t talk for a while. Stiles finishes bathing, sloshing soapy water up onto himself, washing away Jackson’s smell. [That makes Jackson’s chest ache a little bit. Which is _stupid_. He doesn’t comment on it.]

When he’s done, he stands and dresses, and he steps over Jackson’s legs, pausing at the door. “I’m going to go home now,” he announces uncertainly. Jackson looks up at him.

“This is never happening again,” he says in response. He doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

Stiles gives him another look - the worst look. The typical one. Pity. And somehow, that’s worse than everything else that’s happened. “I’ll see you around,” he murmurs. And then he actually bends down and presses a kiss against Jackson’s temple before ducking his head in embarrassment and exiting down the stairs.

Jackson steps into the tub as soon as he leaves, sinking down beneath the surface and holding his breath. 

There’s no sound in this place. The bubbles rise to the top.

  

**XXIII.**

The Whittemores don’t have family dinners very often anymore, but when they do, it’s generally a barrage of questions about each other’s day - most of them directed at Jackson, trying to draw him out of his shell.

He usually responds with one-word answers, but tonight he provides details, talks at length about everything his parents want to hear. And when their plates are empty, he wipes his mouth with a napkin, stands, and says, “Thank you.” Then, pushing his chair back into place, “I love you.”

His parents freeze, stunned. They stare at him for a moment, baffled, then break out into wide smiles, radiating happiness. Like he’s just made their fucking week. “We love you too, son,” his mother says, voice thick with emotion.

Jackson forces a smile and leaves. He hears the two of them whispering as he ascends the stairs.

 

**XXIV.**

He sits with Scott again at lunch on Monday.

“Careful now,” the dark-haired boy teases. “People are going to start thinking you and I are friends.”

“You should move on from Allison,” Jackson says, ignoring the comment. “It will never work between you.”

Scott blinks at him, stupefied. His smile turns into an annoyed grimace, and he ducks his head to stare at his lunch. “Wow. Great opener. Also, none of your business.”

“You’re just going to end up hurting each other more,” Jackson goes on.

“Why do you care, exactly?” Scott grumbles, stabbing his straw into his juice box.

Jackson makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t.”

Scott glares. “Then why are you telling me what to do?”

Jackson frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t really know.”

Scott takes a sip from his drink. “Good talk, buddy.”

 

 **XXV.**  

“I’m worried about you,” Lydia says, sitting in the passenger’s seat with one foot out on the grass, the other planted firmly inside. Jackson’s fingers curl on the steering wheel.

“Don’t be,” he says.

Lydia shakes her head stubbornly. “You’ve been acting really strange. Stranger than usual.” She flips her hair. “I just want to emphasize again that you can always come talk to me if you need to.”

He scratches the back of his head. “I know that. Thanks.”

She studies his face carefully. After a minute or so, her shoulders slump in defeat. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me. _No one_ can help you if you shut them out.” She touches his arm briefly, squeezes. “People care about you, whether you like it or not.”

He turns and gazes out the driver’s side window. “Goodnight, Lydia.”

 

**XXVI.**

He has a wet dream. It’s feverish and confused, and he doesn’t remember anything about it.

But he wakes up with the taste of Stiles on his tongue.

 

 **XXVII.**  

He sits in the locker room after practice, surrounded by the droning buzz of his teammates slamming metal doors and chattering about school and work and parents and sex. His gaze is unfocused as he stares in through the grate of his personal locker, peering into the blackness within. It’s the abyss, and he’s sinking deeper and deeper still. 

Everything is decay.

He hears a startled laugh and turns to his left to see Scott wiping furiously at his eyes, Stiles doubled over in laughter with a peeled orange clutched in his hand. “Sorry, dude! I didn’t mean to spray you.”

Jackson turns away and looks down at the floor tiles. He pinches the bridge of his nose, lets the memories flow. There’s no use fighting them anymore. They’re with him always: the voice and its body, the killer and its claws. 

The void yawns.

He feels a hand touch down gently on his shoulder, looks up to see Stiles standing above him, chewing on his last slice of orange. Glancing around, he sees that they’re the only ones left in the room.

“My demons are acting up again,” Stiles says quietly, no traces of joking to be found. “I was wondering if you might know a remedy?”

Jackson almost laughs. Almost.

He tugs Stiles down to sit on the bench beside him, breathes in the smell of limonene on the other boy’s breath. “This isn’t a thing,” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever you say.” Jackson glares.

“You don’t want it to be a thing.”

“Neither do you.”

Jackson’s eyes flutter shut. “Yeah,” he agrees, lips parting as Stiles’ mouth ghosts against his. “Neither do I.”

And they crash back into oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. This is probably a lot stranger and bleaker than you were wanting, but I hope you like it anyway.


End file.
